Sonnet for My Father
Imprint in snow of a diving hawks’ wings
My tiny mittened hand clings to your glove
You kneel down, focusing clear eyes above
The tree line, searching for the bird-like thing
Whose great wings a blanket of death did bring
to some poor, cold snowflake mole, bereft of
shelter, and you, with shameless, wondering love
of beasts preying on unknowing playthings,
marvel over such a lovely vision –
the ghost of savageness that haunts the snow.
You have shown me what others do not see:
I can weep for the shivering mole and still
rejoice with the hawk whose sloped beak knows
its watchful stomach will be full; and we
can leave to hike some other snowy hill.
Addie Bushnell is a senior at Memorial High School who spends most of her time playing music, staying out late on weeknights, and not doing her homework. This is her first contribution to Volume One.